


In Case You Shake Apart and Want A Brand New Start

by ohfrecklefreckle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Canon, Challenge fic, M/M, Peterick, These boys tho, all of the feels, summer lovin peterick creations challenge, well almost canon obvs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 13:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfrecklefreckle/pseuds/ohfrecklefreckle
Summary: ~There was something powerful about the way the water made him feel, like everything was possible and somehow things would work out. It washed over him inside, the gentle splash of the small ripples on the rocks below calming the sense of resignation that he had tried to keep at bay while they were talking.~Written for the Summer Lovin' Peterick Creations Challenge <3 Inspired by a suggestion from the wonderfulOutfieldOutlawOld school disclaimer: M/M RPF - you have been warned! If you don't like RPF then please don't read it. Explicit smut with bad language. Definitely has elements of angst but please enjoy anyway!





	In Case You Shake Apart and Want A Brand New Start

**Author's Note:**

> If you fancy a somewhat immersive experience then there's links in the end notes to two YT music videos that you might wish to listen to :)

There was never any doubt in Pete's mind that as soon as the wheels of the plane hit tarmac that he was home. There was a feeling in the air when he landed at Midway that was like a soothing lavender balm being applied to his temples with the most delicate of touches. Chicago would always truly be home no matter how far or how hard he ran from it. It was in a state full of family and memories that he held dear but that had once suffocated him so hard that he absconded to the bright lights and ingrained dirt of big city LA to escape it. Still, every time he returned it brought a clear and clean breath of lake air into his lungs.

It didn't take long to clear security and having been bundled out of a rear exit into a waiting SUV, his first priority was to direct the driver to the Starbucks drive thru for the drink he had longed for from the minute the plane was in the air. Cruising the freeway with at least two iced almond lattes (extra shot, extra caramel syrup) would make the stifling heat of the day more bearable. After so many years in LA Pete knew that he should have a better tolerance for it but he was at least grateful to deal with the high temperatures far better than Patrick who would, no doubt, spend the next few days retreating to the comfort of anywhere air conditioned. So many times he had tried to talk to Patrick about wearing shorts instead of tight jeans but the good advice had continued to fall on deaf ears.

His home for the next week or two was the luxury lake house he had shared with Patrick before. Somehow being close to the water calmed fraying creative nerves that would be close to totally shredded by the end of the first couple of days. Going away to write had proved to be fruitful in the past but going home to write was even more so. Waking to the sounds of gentle lake waves and the birds splashing on and off the water had taken Pete into a better mental space every time they ran away there to work together. High rise apartments and sprawling hotel suites, nice as they were, had all failed where the peace of nature had prevailed.

The SUV made short work of the trip and the driver was soon helping him in with his bags. Pete felt the tension drain from his body the second he was out on the private jetty at the rear of the house, leaning on the beaten up old wooden rail and staring out into the sparkling blue nothingness of Lake Michigan as it sat calmly before him. Later he planned to get comfortable somewhere and sit with his feet in the water, feeling the chill taking the heat of the day out of him until he couldn't bear the cold any longer. It was an intense feeling of alive when he spent time near water but somehow the coast in LA didn't feel quite the same.

Pete was lost in his own thoughts and had no idea how long he'd spent that way when the steady chug of an engine interrupted the perfect peace as he watched the sun slowly sinking over the water. He felt the smile spread on his face and it made him laugh out loud at himself. He had never been a gambling man but time and time again people had warned him that his poker face wasn't up to standard. There was no hiding that he was happy to see Patrick. It had only been a month since they landed back from Japan but four weeks was a long time to be apart from your best friend.

The slam of car doors and gentle cheerfulness of small talk was the sound he followed, making his way back through the house towards the rather grand entrance hall. Pete waited for a moment in the kitchen until he heard the main entrance door close again but couldn't wait long enough for the engine to start before he came out through the kitchen and looked round to see where Patrick was.

“Patrick?”

“Yeah, man. I'm here.”

The distant shout told him that Patrick had already gone up the plush marble staircase and the temptation was there to follow him up. Pete didn't care which of the many rooms he ended up sleeping in, he knew before unpacking so much as a Metallica t-shirt that he would spend precious little time in there. On the warmer nights he would happily spend it sleeping out under the stars, lighting the fire pit to keep him the right side of cold. Some nights they would go out and no doubt come back worse for wear and fall asleep on the couch. Much like Patrick he had learned over time to adapt to sleeping whenever and wherever he could which made trips away so much easier.

“Cool. Good trip?”

“I'll come down. Gimme a minute.”

Pete had realised in his youth that he could be an impatient person and didn't like to be kept waiting for what he wanted but he also knew that Patrick was the exception to every rule he had ever made (and inevitably broken) over time. Instead of getting grouchy he went back to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of scotch from the counter top and re-emerged just to shout into the quiet.

“Meet me out back when you're ready.”

Making his way outside Pete was soon pouring generous measures into each of the glasses, knowing that an early nightcap was the ideal way to take the edge off his own stress levels thanks to the turbulence that had hit his plane on the way in. It would also warm Patrick up nicely which could be needed depending on how good or bad his journey in had been. The outdoor furniture on the natural stone paved terrace looked comfortable enough and, after pulling the second reclining chair a few feet closer to his own, Pete perched on the edge of a low wall and waited.

Half way down the staircase Patrick stopped to smooth down his t-shirt and reposition his baseball cap. That was his excuse anyway. In truth he had been feeling unusually nervous since the plane had taken off. He had so many new ideas and they had been spinning in his head since they had made plans to get together. He was sure that if he recorded any more demos that the melodies were about to literally start spilling out of his phone and Macbook.

Pete's scattergun lyric snippets had been coming through at a crazy rate every day for weeks. Patrick would never tell Pete as much but the fact that he still got to see the handwritten books to back up what had arrived via what felt like a million Whatsapped pictures was still one of his favourite things. There was the very essence of Pete and his sage creativity in the notebooks full of scribbled words. Patrick could follow moods and feelings across the various pages, the sketches and doodles sometimes saying as much as the words did. He couldn't wait to take them with him to bed later and pore over them, playing his half-worked demos into his ears over and over again long into the early hours of morning until it all started to come together.

He headed outside, pausing only to rearrange his hair one last time. The setting sun of the early evening was far kinder to his eyes than the early flight at dawn had been. It turned out that scoring films took up more of his time than he ever imagined but mainly in terms of pitch meetings, run throughs and dinner dates with eager producers and markedly more broken directors, both of whom needed him completely on board to make a vision come to life. He negotiated the steps down to the terrace and his eyes met Pete's. A warm feeling enveloped him before the open arms had the chance to and with an internal sigh of relief he let himself be gathered up like the autumn leaves that would likely only be weeks away.

Summer beside Lake Michigan was always a wonder to him growing up. Hot days turned to cold nights without warning, bleak mornings would burn off to searing heat in the long hazy days of July. By choice he was a spring or autumn guy but summer always seemed a good time to write Days were longer, nights were shorter and lighter, neither of which suited his eternal night owl status but life felt somehow kinder on his soul.

“Man, it's so good to see you.”

“You too Pete, it feels like so long...”

“It's _been_ too long.”

Pulling back briefly Patrick couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

“It hasn't even been a month.”

“You're dead wrong. It's been a whole four weeks.”

“That's not a-... You know what, never mind.”

“See, it's been too long. You know it too.”

A hug from Pete wasn't like hugging the wall of human muscle that Andy had become, the sloppy, lazy, always-from-behind snuggles from a stoned Joe or even the towering attack of endless and over eager arms from Brendon. It was warm and cosy, like his favourite Batman brushed cotton pyjama bottoms or the first cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows in the fall. Pete's affection was the equivalent of his mother's pumpkin squares in that it made him nostalgic and felt good for his soul even if it might be bad for him in other ways.

“You can let go now.”

“What if I don't want to?”

“Pete...”

The arms released him without further protest. It was too early in their trip for relations to break down. Patrick knew that there would be plenty of time for that to happen.

“Drink?”

He gladly accepted the glass that was pushed in his direction and took a seat, looking out over the water as the fuschia pink glimmer of the sun reflected off the lake. It was paradise being so close to what he still thought of as home but far enough away from the rest of the world. There was a valuable and necessary sense of isolation that he cherished on their writing trips. His own studio at home gave him something of that but not in the same way and certainly not for long enough. He would often be woken up by Eliza in what was the morning to him but the afternoon to her, music looping through his earphones as he slept face down in sheet music, scribbled notes and surrounded by empty tea mugs and the occasional beer bottle.

“Thanks.”

“Say it. For old time's sake?”

Patrick's glare-over-the-glasses never gold old and Pete usually set himself a target of getting at least one a day whenever they were together. If he didn't get one it usually meant that he was being way too well behaved or that Patrick was ill, neither of which he could ever be pleased about.

“Okay, okay. Don't say it. So, how was your trip?”

“Early. But, okay. No delays, no awful person sat beside me on the plane, no autograph hunters at the airport. Good, maybe. More than okay.”

“Sounds good. Mine was _awful_.”

“You hit some turbulence, that's all, right?”

“It's not _just_ turbulence Patrick.”

“It is but you sent me a message last time this happened letting me know which attorney has your will in storage so I know what to expect now.”

Pete shrugged. He wasn't afraid of dying so much as he just didn't want to know when his time was up. Any and every possible disaster that could befall him was something he had thought through in detail over time and the biggest risk he took over and over again was flying. It was necessary for his work and life in general but that didn't mean he had to like it.

“You're the one who's getting my collection of band t-shirts so you need to know. I'm only ever thinking of you.”

Both of them laughed but Pete felt the force in the noises coming from his mouth. He wasn't lying when he said it, he just didn't want Patrick to know exactly how true it was. There was no point looking over to try and get a read on what Patrick was thinking. He had a knack of being more oblivious than obvious and it was an enviable skill. Every dip of the plane had him grabbing for someone or something and somehow the thought of not seeing Patrick again was worse than the the thought that he might not make it. Pete's sensible side could look out of the window and see that it was a fine day with nothing but a little clear air stuff to contend with. The only eye of the storm he was ever flying straight into was his own emotional one.

He sipped at his drink, listening to Patrick's stories from the last four weeks but the past seven days in particular. There was a verbal set-to with an arrogant foley artist, a near nervous breakdown by a commissioning editor and then a temporary misplacement of a memory stick that could have cost him a million dollars in reparation had he not found it in one of his shoes under the desk where he had been working. Pete was rapt the entire time. His own stories were goofy, sprawling, constantly off at random tangents and always punctuated by a punchline. Pete usually got tired of the sound of his own voice half way through but Patrick could read him the back of a shaving cream can for a year straight and it would still hold his attention.

Eventually Pete noticed that the sun had sunk below the horizon completely, the stars had started to twinkle and all he had done so far was top up glasses and listen with only the the odd acknowledgement as a contribution but he didn't mind that at all. He had a whole two weeks to get through anything he had to say, not that he came with a lot of stories that Patrick didn't already know. Pete's A&R work was straightforward and he had a lot of help with it. There was nothing Patrick could tell him about DJing in middle rate table service clubs that he didn't already know. He was content to give his best friend room to vent and clear his head. Pete was just glad that they were back together and that nobody apart from their nearest and dearest knew where they were. In the morning breakfast would be delivered and they could get down to some real work. Or go down to the beach. Or maybe go for a drive. Or anything. All he wanted was to be close to Patrick.

After listening to one more story which involved rejection of a soundtrack song and the subsequent backtracking that Patrick's movie agent apparently went to town on the picture house for, he realised Patrick was staring straight at him.

“What?”

“Fuck, Pete. Did we really drink most of the bottle already?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I, um, I think that's me done. You know I don't drink like I used to. None of us do. Or maybe Joe still does but whatever.”

“That next level of 'don't give a fuck' does not come from liquor alone.”

Patrick's wry smile and resigned shrug indicated that he knew exactly what Pete meant.

“So, do you have your lyric books?”

“Yeah, 'course, but do you still want them right now? I mean, you've had half a bottle of the finest whisky someone at the record company's money can buy.”

He eyed Patrick carefully, knowing that he couldn't rely on his own face not to rat him out. The whisky was slowly dismantling his resolve to keep their conversation entirely about work and business. He could see the way Patrick had relaxed thanks to the liquor, head back against the chair and rubbing his fingers around the rim of the empty tumbler.

“Sure I want them. You told me you had a lot to say and I... I wanna get into it. I've got a feeling we're going to do great here. Really great.”

“Okay, so, shall we call it a night and I'll go get them for you?”

There wasn't time for Pete to say anything else before Patrick got to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily, and put his hand out in Pete's direction. A momentary flash of a scenario shot behind Pete's eyes; he would take the hand and be pulled into another hug, a hug that would be warmer and closer and tainted with the smell of alcohol. A hug that would lead to his hand sliding down Patrick's back until his fingers found the empty belt loops and hooked through them, a hug that started at arms and ended at hips, moulded to one another. A hug that found his lips barely millimetres from enchantingly flushed pink ones...

“Gimme your glass and I'll take them in. You grab the bottle. We can finish it tomorrow.”

A hug that wasn't a hug at all. A practical gesture. That's all it was. Pete couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed but immediately scolded himself. One night and three glasses of whisky and all of a sudden every promise and resolution he'd made to himself and silently to the mother of two of his children had started to slide. If Pete ever knew what it was to feel shame it was when he let himself down after promising himself to do better and be better.

“Thanks man, I'll be in in a sec. You, uh, you go up and I'll come dig them out for you. Just wanna take a few pictures of the lake. You know me, I love being back here.”

“Sure, see you up there.”

The minute he heard the door creak shut behind Patrick, Pete headed to the wall around the edge of the deck and climbed up on it, standing high above the still water and staring out into the nothing where the lake presumably still met the sky. There was something powerful about the way the water made him feel, like everything was possible and somehow things would work out. It washed over him inside, the gentle splash of the small ripples on the rocks below calming the sense of resignation that he had tried to keep at bay while they were talking. _Don't expect too much _he reminded himself, deep breaths of cool air filling his lungs, _it's just like being at writing camp. But with Patrick. My Patrick_.

The way the name echoed in his head and heart was a warning sign to Pete and he vowed anew to keep things under control. He would go in, get the pile of books, hand them over and then go to bed. That was the plan and he was sticking to it.

By the time Pete got to the top of the stairs Patrick had already resorted to sitting on the edge of his bed. It had been tempting to get on it or in it but he knew that the whisky would have made it dangerous to be horizontal and comfortable. He heard the creak of the wooden landing and moved towards the door, leaning on the jamb as Pete came closer. There was a tense feeling as he waited which was something that he hadn't felt in a long time. He adjusted his glasses then his hat and finally the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it down and then straightening the front of it. Patrick hated how twitchy he was at times and how often those times were when he really cared about something and usually involved Pete.

“I'll just go get them and bring them-”

“No, it's okay, I'll come grab them.”

Patrick stepped forward and felt the light headedness shake his steps. Fortunately he was following Pete so there was no chance of getting caught looking so wobbly after only a few glasses of something to drink. His eyes fixed on the back of Pete's t-shirt, noting that he looked noticeably more defined through the thin fabric. Andy had tried to get them both to work out more and whilst Patrick had maintained his twice a week cardio regime it looked like Pete had been attempting to keep up with their cross fit obsessed bandmate.

He paused at the doorway to Pete's room as if crossing into it would cause him to burst into flames. It was already a mess; one bag upended and emptied onto the bed and Pete was busy emptying a flight case onto the light wood floor, pens and earphones clattering as the lyric books emerged one after another. They were all rough around the edges with cracked spines and dog eared corners. Once upon a time Patrick had bought Moleskine journals for Pete, out of love and wanting him to have the very best for the beautiful words he wrote into them, but he had never seen them again. Instead the usual assortment of cheap spiral bound jotters and occasional kraft covered board backed books were piling onto the floor. Patrick watched on as they were all scooped up by the toned olive arms and then presented to him in a haphazard pile. A lump formed out of nowhere in his throat and he tried not to let it reach his heart or his eyes. It was only the whisky talking, Patrick told himself. That's all it could be. They were only scruffy books full of words, that's all.

“You okay?”

Patrick took a deep breath and reached out, gathering the books up and instinctively clutching them to his chest. If Pete asked he would just say that he was making sure he didn't drop them. He chose not to think too long or hard about why he couldn't just say that he wanted to read them so badly and never wanted to let them go ever again.

“Sure, I just, y'know, the whisky. The travel. It's, uh, been a long day.”

“Yeah, I gotta let you get some rest. Busy day tomorrow. Breakfast is coming at 11, early start, huh?”

He couldn't argue. He was a late sleeper unless there was an alarm set and all Patrick hoped was that he remembered to set one before collapsing into bed. He nodded his head to the side to show that he was going to make a move. Before he could speak or risk taking an unsteady step back towards his room Pete's arms were around his neck again and the pile of books was pressing firmly into his sternum.

“It's so good to see you. I missed you Patrick.”

“Yeah, you too Pete. Four weeks really is a long time after all. Who knew?”

Unable to do anything other than succumb to the hug Patrick let himself enjoy it, not that it was doing anything for the feeling that was rising up his spine. The choked up throat lump wasn't going away. He knew it wouldn't until he had pored over every last letter in the books. He was never ready to start the task and then never ready to finish it when he got to the last page either. Picking over the outpouring of emotions from the very depths of Pete's soul was a twisted privilege but one that he hoped he would always have to endure.

Eventually the embrace was over and without any other words Patrick made his way back to his room, hearing Pete's door click shut as he kicked his own to nudge it closed. Almost reverentially he put the pile down on the bed before heading over the the windows and throwing three of them open to let the heat out and the sound of the lake in. He set his alarm and then sat on the bed, resting one hand on the pile of books. Waiting had killed him. Since the day of the phone call from Pete saying that the next record was in there somewhere it had been nothing but pure anticipation. He had melodies on lock and good to go. Twelve riffs a day came to mind, he woke up to drum solos and sample loops. All he needed was the words. Pete's words. All of them.

Pete paced the floor in his room, his feet almost on auto pilot to the balcony and back. He wasn't tired in the slightest but knew how important it was to get Patrick to go to bed. If he pretended to be asleep them the house would fall quiet and Patrick could sleep off his semi-permanent jetlag and tomorrow would be a far more harmonious day. A tired Patrick was not someone he ever wanted to write with or duck punches from ever again so the recent years had taught him the tricks of the collaborative trade.

It had been an hour since he handed the books over so Pete guessed that it would be safe to leave the confines of his luxury panic room and get back to the great outdoors. The balcony was okay but there was no supply of cold soda or Red Vines in his room yet which made a trip to the kitchen inevitable. Slowly he opened his door, listening intently to check for signs of life. Nothing. No sounds other than his own breathing to contend with. Pete stepped onto the landing and walked towards the top of the staircase. As he reached Patrick's room the gap between door and frame was just enough for him to see through. It felt almost wrong to sneak a look but he was just making sure that Patrick was okay, that he'd settled and managed to get to sleep okay. That was totally his reason.

The quick glimpse stopped Pete in his tracks. Patrick was sprawled out on top of the made bed almost entirely fully dressed but his breathing suggested that he was sleeping soundly enough. His glasses and hat were arranged neatly on the pillow atop the unoccupied side of the bed but in the middle of his chest was an open notebook face down against a worn image of David Bowie's Space Oddity album cover. It was as peaceful as anything he had seen for a while and although the urge hit him to go and take the book from Patrick's chest and replace it with himself, Pete resisted. It wasn't the time even if was the perfect place. He had been told not so long ago that that ship had sailed it's very last journey and he had accepted it as best he could. It didn't stop the feeling but it stopped him doing anything about it.

Before the moment got any weirder Pete walked away and carefully negotiated the creaky floorboards before padding down the stairs in the direction of the kitchen. Soon he had a full pack of Red Vines and a litre bottle of Dr Pepper in his hand and a recliner under his backside. There were endless hours ahead in the dark where he could count and wish on as many stars as he wanted. Maybe he would look up and see home like he usually did. Every star was the second on the right when the sky was so vantablack compared to the bright lights of LA. Pete had so much to remember and even more to forget. There was a spare star for every wish, good and bad, that sat heavy in his heart until he and Patrick were alone again. The void of space felt familiar and welcoming. The hours ahead would be more of a trip than a journey but Pete didn't mind that. If anything he was used to it. In every way possible it felt like more like home than home did.

~~

Patrick woke with a start, his bladder sending emergency signals that his numbed brain had clearly been ignoring for way too long. A scramble out of bed that sent his glasses and one of Pete's books tumbling to the floor was all he could manage on the dash to the bathroom.

Comfort break completed, Patrick took the time to grab his phone and check the time. 4.22am. The gentle glow through his window of the sun threatening to break the promise of night was enough to send him to the blinds and drapes that would block out the unwanted wake up call. Sunrises were all well and good but when he had seen them on almost every continent of the world in some of the most beautiful cities they became a bit tedious when good quality sleep was the alternative. He'd be the first to admit that he was definitely a sunset kinda guy.

Patrick decided that figuring out the electric controls for the blinds was too much at that time so dragged the drapes across instead, almost drawing them to their inevitable meeting point in the middle until he looked out of the window and saw Pete on the deck below. There was no sign of sleep or rest. On Pete's knee was a sketch pad and although he couldn't make out the shapes forming on the page it was clear with the urgency of Pete's hand movements that something was happening.

Several minutes passed before Patrick realised that he was still watching. He wanted to go and see if everything was okay but it was Pete so of course it was okay. Pete was always awake at odd times and doing something with time he clearly didn't plan on wasting. That wasn't really Patrick's MO. If something really piqued his interest he could go for hours beyond his reasonable limits and regularly did but the crash would come eventually. He was pretty sure that beds weren't designed to be as comfortable as they were by accident. When he saw the sheet of paper Pete had just filled being turned over and the frantic drawing continuing on another blank page Patrick called it a day, pulling the drapes closed completely before retreating to bed. At his second attempt he at least had the good grace to slip his jeans off and get under the covers. It was at least six hours before he had to consider facing the day and he planned on making the most of them.

~~

The next two days passed in a blur of working, writing and late night waking.

Pete had not planned anything meticulously other than mealtimes, much to Patrick's simultaneous joy and frustration. That home deliveries of everything from artisan breads and pastries to banquets of expertly prepared sushi were arriving as regular as clockwork made his stomach happy but his heart less so. The intensity in Pete's writing energy had become oppressive pretty quickly and he longed for an escape into the wider world, if nothing else so that he could hear something ringing in his ears other than the pain he was frantically trying to set to music.

The song he was trying to bring together was yet another punch-in-the-guts number and at his third failed attempt to nail the rhythm guitar section he threw his earphones in a fit of temper. All Patrick could do was watch impotently as they bounced back off the desk at an unnatural angle, taking out his cup of cold coffee as they rebounded with a plastic heavy clatter-shatter sound.

“Fuck, shit, fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

He dived forward as the latte lake started to spread in the direction of the open lyric book balanced and just overhanging the edge of the desk. Patrick grabbed it just in time and it dropped open in his hand.

_Sometimes I think you know_

_Know how you want to make me_

_If I'm right I want to know you more_

_Please don't say_

_The more you understand me_

_The less you say_

_The less you'll stay_

There was something in the words that felt different when Patrick read them in the midst of his panic. Like they had somehow come to life in his head in a different way. The sense of urgency took over and brought him a new meaning and it wasn't until he heard the trickle of cold liquid hitting the tiled floor that he stopped thinking about them.

“What happened?”

Pete's voice drowned out the dripping and Patrick looked sheepishly towards the door. An armful of kitchen paper was thrust towards him and he started to split it up to clean both the floor and the desk.

“I had, um, I had an accident and knocked my coffee over. Nothing major.”

“Yeah, because you screaming swear words loud enough for Andy to hear in Oregon didn't make me panic _at all_.”

Patrick looked up with incredulity etched into the expression on his face.

“So you thought something really bad had happened to me and yet the only thing you brought to save me was kitchen paper?”

With a shrug Pete answered the question completely with no further words. He didn't have anything to add but he was hardly known for his preparedness when it came to disasters or emergencies. Patrick would remember very vocally, if prompted, the time when Pete assured their Chicago apartment landlord that he was capable of taking charge of fixing a really leaky bathroom fawcett without disclosing the fact that the only thing he knew how to do was to cut the water supply to the entire apartment block. It had been an early warning sign that Patrick, Joe, Andy and most of his other friends back then had chosen to ignore.

“I think you'll find I had the right tools for the job.”

“Seeing as I tipped my drink you need to make me another.”

“I'll take you for a ride to the drive thru. Maybe we should start you with a plastic cup and work our way back up to crockery when you're ready?”

“Fuck you, Pete.”

With the casual and oddly affectionate curse word came the balled up kitchen paper aimed straight at his head. Even at point blank range Patrick had a lousy throw and Pete smiled as it landed wetly three feet behind him and around two feet to his right.

“There's one about ten minutes away. I'll drive. You can tell me how it's going with the music.”

“I really need a break. Just for a few hours. We're going great but I'm all music-ed out.”

Pete had wanted to keep his surprise exactly that but if he was going to get Patrick on board for a semi re-write of a key verse over the following few hours then it seemed a good idea to let the cat out of the bag as soon as possible.

“I've got a treat planned for tonight. I'm taking you out. Just, let's get this afternoon out of the way and the demo down and we can have tomorrow off. I think we're so close to something Joe and Andy will love and I don't want to risk missing out on it.”

He saw the resigned look on Patrick's face and forced himself to chalk it down as a win. After so many years he knew that perfection was Patrick's Achilles Heel and he had a good idea of the recipe for success every time they had managed to achieve it. Every now and again a longed for moment of magic was just within his grasp and it was such a nice feeling to put his fingertips out and grab it that he couldn't risk it slipping away.

“Okay, okay. Okay. You buy the coffees. And I want a muffin. Lemon and poppyseed. Keep me sweet and we might make it to your trip without me deliberately throwing coffee in my laptop so you'll let me out of here.”

“Deal. Let's go.”

Pete enjoyed the show of mock ennui that followed as Patrick gathered his phone and keys. Many times he had won Patrick over with coffee and a muffin. Some times he had even managed to get him to do unspeakable things in a dark drive thru parking lot. The way things had been going there was no such hope of anything so exciting but getting one more track down would have to do.

~~

Eight in the evening soon rolled around. The demo was good and Patrick had to admit that, yet again, Pete had been right. There was something about the energy in the music that lit the lyrics up and when he had laid his guitar down for the final time in the early evening it was beyond satisfying. The bass line was rough and dirty and his lead section, the one that Joe would take even further and make even better, was going round and round in his head on loop. It was good. Really good.

The coffee had helped but the two hours of recording and re-recording before he put the final demo together had been intense. He had been glad to hit the shower in the knowledge that freedom was on the other side of the front door. Still having no idea of what the evening held Patrick picked out a middle of the road outfit – tight fitting jeans, boots and a short sleeved shirt with a t-shirt underneath. The evenings had been balmy so he decided not to risk a cardigan, knowing that whatever fashion faux pas he might make would be dwarfed by whatever Pete had decided to venture out in.

He waited patiently in the hallway for Pete, taking one last glimpse in the mirror which prompted him to lift his hat and fix his hair one last time. As he pushed a few stray shiny strands back towards the rim of his hat he heard and then saw Pete motoring down the staircase. Even his reflection looked good. Pete's style was the opposite of his own; casual to the point of don't care, colourful and absolutely on trend. The ever-divisive and totally-unnecessary-in-Chicago-summer-heat Gucci denim jacket sat over a slashed t-shirt that Patrick knew without knowing would be sleeveless. Pete's slender thighs were clad in the shiny looking wax coated jeans that had become a staple of his wardrobe. It was only when he realised that he was still staring hard and that Pete was stood immediately behind him staring back through the mirror that he turned around.

“You look good Patrick.”

“No, I really don't but I'm ready.”

“You do look good. Stop being an asshole and let me say something nice to you. That's a great shirt. Suits you. And you smell great too.”

Pete reached out and ran his fingertips along the crisply pressed collar, imagining nothing more than letting his fingers go to the fastened buttons and undoing them one by one. That soft white cotton t-shirt would feel so good against his cheek as he nuzzled into the middle of Patrick's chest...

His momentary reverie was broken by his phone ringing meaning their car was outside and waiting.

“Our ride is here. Ready?”

“Sure but where are we going?”

“You'll see. You're going to love it.”

Trying to carry on with the courage of his convictions of what had seemed a good idea at the time, Pete opened the door, grabbed Patrick's jacket from the hook beside it and ushered Patrick out. All he could hope was that his choice of surprise was a good one but he figured that if he didn't know what Patrick wanted then nobody truly did.

~~

Almost forty delightful air conditioned minutes later the car pulled up on North Broadway, the light dying and the garish green illuminated sign glowing in the gloom of dusk. Patrick stepped out onto the sidewalk and smiled at Pete across the roof of the car.

“This is some surprise, Pete.”

“I remember important things y'know. You know that.”

The swell in Patrick's chest was hard to contain. The Green Mill had mythical status in his mind. His dad had played there a hundred times and told him tales of the great jazz musicians he had played with – some more famous than others, some not famous at all – but Patrick had long wanted to spend an evening there to experience it all for himself. It somehow had just never happened. He couldn't know that Pete had promised himself long ago that he would make it a reality some day.

Patrick made his way around the car and hugged Pete close to him, careful not to crush him too hard as his arms wrapped around the slender frame.

“Thanks, man. I don't know what to say.”

“How about the drinks are on you? That would be a start.”

He felt Pete laughing against him and it felt good. It felt familiar. There was something about Pete being close to him that felt right and always felt like safety and _home_. It helped that he smelled good too, not that Patrick could let himself concentrate on a fact like that for too long when he knew there would be the best Old Fashioned in the city waiting for him inside.

Finally letting go of Pete he waited to be led inside, watching as Pete paid the admission charge as if they were two regular customers. He didn't care for being recognised and had come to accept it as part of life but it was a rare treat when he went under the radar. When they were shown to a booth in the corner, shrouded in just enough darkness to keep them out of sight, Patrick couldn't have been happier. They sat side by side, Pete closest to the wall, but with only the back of their heads visible to the rest of the club other than the musicians. He could see the stage clearly, hear the bustle of the bar and smell the memory of age-old smoke that lingered in every square inch of fabric. Eyeing the number of mic stands and open instrument cases Patrick knew that he was in for a good night.

The first act on stage started to play just after ten by which point Pete was at the end of his first drink. It was potent enough but nothing he couldn't handle and the sweet aftertaste of burnt honey on his lips was addictive enough that he waved over the waitress and ordered another round for them both. He looked across at Patrick who was already rapt by the music, his eyes wide as the dim amber glow of the stage lights reflected from his glasses. Pete had never been and would never be a jazz or blues fan but he knew that Patrick's heart beat in time to John Lee Hooker and John Coltrane. He had lost count of the times he had found Patrick at Andy's kit playing skiffle beats similar to those filling the heavy air of the club or challenging himself to parrot yet another heartbreaking trumpet solo.

There was no real break between the songs that Pete could distinguish. It was a long, flowing stream of intense moments of crescendo, quiet piano lulls and the gentle, persistent drum beats of a man who played with all the creative musical skill of Andy but notably less tattoos and thrashing arms. Soon enough his second drink was finished and he found his foot tapping along with the music, the warmth of the plenty-proofed cocktail base spreading into his blood and letting his shoulders fall back against the plush upholstery. Patrick's hands were drumming away on his thighs and much as Pete wanted to reach out and grab one to hold it, he knew that it was more than he should do and he didn't want to ruin their night or, more importantly, interrupt Patrick's concentration.

Somehow, and he really had no idea how, over an hour and another round had elapsed when the lady pianist stood, took a bow and thanked the audience for their attention. Patrick's clapping was enthusiastic and loud in comparison to the gentle ripple of applause spreading through the room.

“Pete, she was amazing. They all were. Oh man, that was great.”

“Yeah, she was pretty good. I mean, I don't know what's good and what's not but I liked it.”

The confused-to-disapproving look he detected from the side of Patrick's face that he could see didn't wound like it would normally. He was only being honest. It was no Black Album anniversary Metallica gig for Pete.

“How do you not-? Yeah, in fact, I know. I get it.”

Patrick turned his face towards him and his smile was back. There was a deep happiness in his expression.

“I appreciate that you're doing this for me. You don't like this music. I know. I'm... grateful.”

The awkward shyness that tinged Patrick's words did things it shouldn't to Pete. He had to stop that feeling growing before he bottomed another round of drinks. He immediately pondered if it could actually be cured by another round of drinks and wondered when the waitress would call by again.

“Hey, I don't want grateful. Just enjoy being here.”

He felt movement beside him and suddenly Patrick's knee was up on the banquette seating, pressing firmly against his thigh. Pete didn't move away – he didn't want to – but the temptation to reach out and touch or to move closer was there and he was struggling to control it. The wide eyes were looking straight at him.

“I mean it. This is special. You did all this for me.”

Patrick watched Pete shrug and look down at his hands. It was endearing and adorable but, above all else, genuine. He knew that he figured into Pete's plans in a different way to how Pete had come to figure into his. It wasn't deliberately that way, it just _was_ that way. They shared something so deep and connected but years ago Patrick had made the decision that he wanted to give the people he loved what they wanted if he could. Somehow, in a moment of thinking that Pete didn't love him any more, he had drifted away and into a marriage with someone he loved but not in the same way he loved the man sat across from him. Patrick had known that a marriage of convenience was never for him and that wasn't really what he had. It had become a marriage of inconvenience over time.

His fight with his heart was never ending. Responsibility and decency were forever at odds with a deep seated love that he had no wish to stop feeling and an electric in his veins that only Pete's touch had ever sent through him. The more he looked at Pete the more the sparks flew. His logical brain tried to blame the music and the drinks and the gesture and the everything-but-denied-and-long-unrequited-love-fuelled-lust that was really responsible. Pete was _everything_ and the overwhelming sense of need Patrick felt for him was starting to peek through the cracks in his fortified high-walled defences.

“Pete, I-”

“Can I get you some more drinks gentlemen? Another round of the same?”

The sweet waitress had appeared at just the wrong time. Patrick listened dumbly as Pete politely ordered another round of drinks and some nibbles from the menu.

“Sorry, Patrick, what were you going to say?”

“Oh, it's nothing.”

The moment had passed in Patrick's mind. Whatever he wanted to say had evaporated. It was only the lust talking, that's all it was. He could control the lust. He had done for years.

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I'm.. I'm just going to go to the bathroom.”

A break in the intensity was all he needed, or at least that's what Patrick tried to tell himself as he shuffled through the tables and booths in the direction of the men's room. He could break the spell and come back to the table and just enjoy the music. That's how it would go down. It had to be.

~~

Three more heady cocktails and a neat measure of expensive scotch spilled into their next ninety minutes together. Pete was into the headline act more than the first one, the bluesy vibe of what they played touched on something of the melancholy that sat inside his soul and he nodded along sagely to some of the instrumentals, feeling as much as he was hearing. The last track reminded him almost painfully of Heaven's Gate's melody and he felt his lyrics ringing in his head in time with the low, mournful whine of the guitars and the swish of the drums. _I got dreams of my own but I want to make yours come true... everything else is a substitute for your love..._ There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to do to Patrick to show him how much he meant to him but instead he sat quietly, not quite in the room and not far enough out of it to be entirely okay either.

The end of the track was a meandering group jam, building and building as the minutes passed. Guitar riffs sang out, the drum fills intensified and the piano melody was unrelenting. He saw Patrick lean forward with his elbows rested on his knees, looking at first as if he was staring intently at the stage but when Pete leaned forward to check, his eyes were closed and he was clearly as lost in the music as the performers. Nobody could ever accuse Patrick of being anything less than passionate about music and the way sounds spoke to him was a special part of who he was. Pete sat back and followed suit, closing his eyes and listening. It made the music less about instruments and more about feeling. He liked being lost in the moment, being lost in Patrick's moment too, so much so that at first he didn't recognise the warm feeling on his thigh just above his kneecap.

It wasn't until the fingers started to tap and drum on his leg that he realised that it was a hand and a hand that could keep time impeccably and predict the way the music was going to amp up and become more and more embellished. Pete opted to keep his eyes shut and tried to listen but the music seemed to become more distant the harder he concentrated. He felt the hand moving towards his own and the tapping became less energetic. The air grew thin and struggled to pass by the watermelon he was sure had slipped down his throat, cutting off his ability to breathe or swallow properly. When the fingers moved onto the skin of back of his hand Pete couldn't move, paralysed by the tender way they worked over his knuckles, down to the tips of his fingers and then back towards his wrist. His brain couldn't compute that Patrick was touching him. It had been so long. _So very long_.

The chaotic music was starting to ease and Pete desperately didn't want it to end. At the end of the last note it would bring them both back into the reality of the emptying room and he expected Patrick would come to his senses again. In what felt like a last gasp attempt to find out what was going on he turned his hand over as carefully as he could and waited, wondering what would happen next. Pete felt Patrick's fingers slide between his own and curl around, squeezing his hand softly and not pulling away. The tinkling of the piano's high notes bringing the set to a close motivated him to open his eyes and look down, wanting to note the image of their hands together for the first time in what felt like forever. As his eyes drifted back up he saw Patrick staring at him and it felt like the club dissolved around them and disappeared until Patrick was only thing left in the world.

A final round of applause for the evening broke out and it was the only one that neither of them participated in. Pete didn't want to let go and he didn't want Patrick to let go either. For what felt like an eternity they looked at one another wordlessly and it was only half of the club lights coming on that gave rise to one last squeeze from Patrick before he pulled away.

“So, we let everybody else go and then we'll go?”

Patrick heard his own voice wobbling into the background noise of chairs scraping and excited chatter.

“Yeah, um. Yeah, the car is outside waiting. Like, um, if you wanna go anywhere else tonight there's a late night speakeasy I think you'd kinda like.”

“Can we just go back to the house?“

“Sure, we can go anywhere.”

“Great. Home it is. We've got more scotch in, right?”

He watched as Pete nodded and then grabbed his jacket from the end of the seat.

“A lot of it. And we can grab pizza on the way back too, y'know, if you're still hungry.”

“Great.”

He turned away and watched the last of the guests heading up the short staircase. Patrick got to his feet and held his hand out to Pete, who obliged when he grabbed the offered hand, and gave Pete some leverage to get out of the booth. That was all it was, nothing more, or so he tried to tell himself.

“Let's get food and eat on the way. We've got a long night ahead.”

When he said it Patrick didn't know himself quite what he meant but he did know that he was hungry, emotional and a confused maelstrom of feelings. Pizza and booze had seen him through many difficult times and if nothing else the pizza would mean they didn't have to talk in code for forty minutes behind a driver he didn't know.

~~

Pete unlocked the door and threw the keys in the bowl on the shelf. The trip back home felt like it had taken half the time it had to get to the club. Much as he had tried not to read too much into what had happened in the club he couldn't help but go through all the potential scenarios of what was likely to play out when they were alone. Everything from Patrick booking a flight back to LA to a night of putting together another demo seemed as likely as it did unlikely. He hadn't let his brain go too far along the route of wondering if anything might happen between them. It was part of his nightly routine in his dreams anyway so he had no scenes left untested on that front.

“I'll grab the drinks and see you on the couch.”

As instructed Pete made his way into the living room and slipped his jacket off, draping it over the armchair nearest to the door. He sat on the large couch and rearranged the coffee table books until he had enough room to put out the fancy steel coasters ready for the bottle and glasses to come. Not long after, Patrick came through the door and sat silently, putting the ice filled glasses down before decanting generous measures of the amber liquor into them. Pete took his when it was handed to him and sipped out of it, the burn of the neat liquor sending a warm feeling all the way down from the back of his tongue to the bottom of his belly.

“So, you enjoyed the Green Mill?”

The conversation had to start somewhere and Pete had already decided on the way home that he would try and change the subject. The last thing he needed for their writing time was a breakdown in communication (also known by local law enforcement as low level battery) like they'd had on the odd occasion before.

“Pete it was amazing. Everything I wanted it to be and more. Great music, great drinks. You excelled yourself.”

Pete smiled and shrugged. It hadn't quite been a lucky guess because he was often the one on the brunt end of Patrick's musical nerdery but he would take the props and the brownie points for remembering it coming up in conversation once or twice.

“I knew you'd need a break and we have been working pretty hard since we got here so...”

“It was great. Really. I've had the best night.”

The awkward, flickering squint behind Patrick's glasses was always a dead giveaway that his brain was doing backflips of some sort. Again, it was something Pete had picked up on over time. Sometimes it was awkwardness, sometimes it was that he was being less than honest. It had been clear for some time that Patrick would make a terrible poker player too. Pete took the chance to leave a little more silence between them by taking a further sip out of his drink. Whisky wasn't his thing usually but the expensive stuff Patrick had a taste for was easier drinking. It wasn't as sweet as the honey cocktail at the club but the robust and mature burn of it as it coated his mouth and burst into flames on his tongue felt fitting somehow.

“Pete, I've... I'm...”

No waitress this time but the words didn't quite make it anyway. Against all of his better instincts and blatant desires Pete tried to give Patrick an out.

“It's okay, Patrick, I... we, we don't have to talk about this now, y'know if...”

“We do. I just don't know where to start.”

“Look, I get it. You got carried away with the music and you don't want me to get the wrong idea. You don't have to say it. I know. I remember what you said about us and everything.”

“No, no it's not that. It's not that at all.”

“Patri-”

“Will you just listen for a minute? Please?”

Empassioned and forceful pleas were often Patrick's thing. He got talked over more than he liked in every aspect of his life until he felt pushed to fight his corner. Many times he had been told that he was too polite, in fact he'd been told he was polite to the point of passive in the past which had stung a bit, but when it mattered and the fire was lit underneath him it was easier to find the resolve he needed to stake his claim and set out his stall.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

A deep drink from his glass was punctuated by the clinking of the ice against the tumbler as he put it back down on the table. He had words, so many words, but somehow he found them hard to release into the room. One more deep breath and he forced his lips to move.

“Back at the bar, I was listening to the music. It... it really moved me, you know how I get for jazz and blues and funk. I was hearing so much more, like I could see the words forming in my head. And then I knew. I heard you Pete, it was like you speaking to me in the music.”

“Are you sure you need any more to drink tonight?”

He met Pete's attempts to crack a joke with a weary half smile and an eye roll.

“_Please don't say the more you understand me, the less you say, the less you'll stay. _That's about me isn't it. Even now. After all I did to hurt you and push you away from me. You still... you still care. Maybe, I don't know... maybe you do still want me.”

It was all about the lyric book that Patrick had been hearing snippets of. The fact that Pete had written about him before Mania wasn't a surprise at all. Then came a world of lyrics that had been so different – almost impersonal to a fault – and with the exception of the odd one or two references Patrick had barely seen himself in there at all. That had cut deeply even though he had no right to expect it to be like it always had. So many times he had pushed Pete away in the mornings after, running back to the safety of his wife and family so there was no trace of who he was in the dark next to Pete. Going home the morning after was like penance for his guilty pleasure. A wife that didn't know a thing was waiting for him and never said a thing. A wife he had betrayed before they married and for so long after too. He was a doting husband in all but the infidelity stakes.

Working through the first lyric book had thrown Patrick a loop as there weren't even any thinly veiled references to him in there. The second one was more topical and the themes in there hadn't been anything he connected to. The third one, the one that nearly met it's demise in the form of a cold coffee spillage, had been different. At first he couldn't accept that it was all about him but deep down he knew. He had seen the vision of himself in Pete's words a thousand times before and he stared back at himself from the scrawled pages. The words were painful and no matter how much he tried to read them they wouldn't go in. It was like a force field had appeared around his brain to protect it. If he could make sense of the words then he had to deal with how they made him feel, what they did to his friendship with Pete. He would never be ready to move on and at the same time he would never be ready for their life together, no matter how twisted, to be over either.

“I don't know what you want me to say Patrick.”

“The truth, let's start there.”

“You know the truth. It's never changed for me. It won't. Not ever. You're all I...”

He felt the brakes getting applied to whatever wanted to come out of Pete's mouth. For once he felt able to hear it all, to feel it all.

“Just say it. Please.”

A few moments of silence fell between them and he watched Pete drain his glass and then put it down on the table. Warm brown eyes met his and he saw Pete shuffle to be able to look at him more easily. A tentative hand reached out and cradled his own, he didn't resist, and a rough edged thumb worried at his palm.

“I want you, always have. And I love you, always have too. Nothing-” Patrick did his best to ignore the broken quality in Pete's voice as he spoke. “Nothing can change that. I've tried so hard not to make it weird for you, to feel less. To want you less. I can't but I don't make it weird anymore. You, you made it clear and I respected that. You mean too much to me for me to lose you, y'know.”

Patrick did know. He had been fighting the same feelings for so long but had just become better at boxing them off to be dealt with at another time. He had a wife and family who doted on him every bit as much as he doted on them. Somehow that hadn't changed his love and, if he was truly honest with himself, insatiable lust for Pete which didn't look like it was ever going to truly go away.

“But you know I meant it and didn't mean it at the same time. I'm not that guy Pete. I wasn't that guy. I love her, love my kids but fuck...” The deep breath that followed Patrick's words burned deep in his lungs. He was saying it. It was time. “I love you more than her. I love you. Most of all, best of all and I can't change that. Man, I've tried. Like, you know that feeling when you know it's all going wrong in your head and you can't stop it? I wanted to stop just so I didn't have to let you down. If it was only ever friendship we could stay together. We didn't have to split the band, risk losing our friendship. All that really fucking hard stuff.”

Instinctively the fingers on Patrick's left hand flexed and he felt the cold titanium pressing against the skin of his fingers on either side. He hadn't been forced to marry and he could walk away at any time but that wasn't going to happen. He knew himself too well to even consider that.

“Why now?”

Patrick wasn't sure he had an answer for Pete's question or at least not one that didn't sound silly or selfish. It had come to a head because his emotions had reached their natural breaking point. There was no give left. Every time he was with Pete he wanted to smother him with the love of a lifetime and it took all his resolve not to give in to that. After the things he had put Pete through it seemed cruel to suddenly change his mind but Patrick had lost control of whatever had kept him at arms length. On the flight in he had been thinking about what the week ahead held and everything from desperate lunges at Pete through to carefully constructed speeches about how they could make it work had crossed his mind. None of it fit so he had decided to go with the tactic of just seeing what would happen if he let his mouth loose.

“I don't know. I can't explain it. Somehow time seems shorter now and I'm... I'm not happier for stopping what we had. Maybe I'm ready to share with you now. No, hang on, what I mean is maybe I'm ready to share _me_. With you. For good.”

Pete was sure that his heart was going to stop beating but had to trust that it was going to go on at least long enough for him to process some of what he had heard. The deal was there on the table. He knew they could never ever really give up their other lives for each other but they didn't have to. What he really needed was to take the guilt, hurt and anger out of the double life their love left them with. He loved Meagan, he definitely loved his kids. In all honesty he had a lot of time for Eliza and the happiness she brought to Patrick. He hadn't ever wanted to hurt anybody that he loved, neither of them had.

“Do... do you mean that? I can't cope with cold feet again Patrick. I barely made it the last time. You remember how bad it was.”

It wasn't a fond memory. Patrick's full scale meltdown in a Paris hotel room had been as monumental as the tower that loomed over the hotel from the outside. There had been no near misses like there had been in the past. No overzealous cleaners letting themselves into whichever suite they'd spent the night in, no journalist posing as a hotel porter misguidedly trying to get a scoop on the groupies that neither of them ever brought back to their rooms. The weight of saying “Goodnight and love you” to Eliza on an impromptu long distance call from his kids whilst Pete was curled around him had proved to be too much and that was it. 'No more' was the declaration and they had stuck to it. Almost twenty months had passed since they had shared anything other than a platonic back slap and it told in their friendship, their writing and their relationships at home. Eliza was seeing less of Patrick as he spent more time in the studio alone and Pete went out to the opening of even more envelopes just to take his mind off things.

“Yeah. I do. I can't change this. Can't change who I am for you. To you. It won't go away Pete, you know that. You knew it a long time before I did.”

The resignation in Patrick's voice wasn't sad, it sounded more like relief to Pete. There was no edge to his voice, no short and snappy tone that sounded constantly on the verge of explosion into something far crueller. He stopped rubbing at Patrick's palm and just held the hand in his palm tenderly, staring down at the skin and how the paleness of it contrasted with his own.

“So, what happens now?”

He watched as Patrick drank the remaining half of his drink down in one go and then put his glass down next to Pete's empty one. His instinct was to offer to pour them more but he was too happy holding Patrick's hand to want to do anything else. Their shared gaze was reinstated when the golden circled eyes met his own and held the half-stare.

“I don't know. Maybe you could kiss me and we'll take it from there. I've missed kissing you.”

The liquor had dried his mouth out so Pete grabbed his glass with the slowly melting whisky-tainted ice in and swigged what had gathered in the bottom, using it to make sure he could wet his lips.

“Are you sure? I mean we can wait. I've waited.”

“We both waited too long and that's all on me. And yeah, I'm _really _sure.”

For once Pete was hesitant and although he didn't enjoy the feeling he had to be sure. It was about to ruin things once and for all if it all went wrong. There was no way back from where they were set to go. Pete knew that he couldn't take another failure, another rejection. Not from Patrick.

“I know but tomorrow...”

“Wentz, just fucking kiss me.”

In the second that the cold but eager lips met his own, Patrick knew that the kiss could never be the mistake Pete feared. It would be something they would have to write songs about, make coded videos about, talk to each other about when curled together in between soft cotton hotel room sheets. The kiss was hungry and desperate at the same time. He'd kept Pete ravenous and that was all he could think as his mouth was devoured; _I'm so sorry I starved you for so long_. He gave up into the kiss, knowing that he didn't want to resist any of it. Pete's love was like a freight train – either hurtling at a hundred miles an hour or derailed and abandoned with no destination – and he was finally ready for the ride.

The hands that had moved to his face tilted his head gently and the kiss softened briefly, the tongue that had been plundering his mouth relented and the broad, soft, spit slicked lips ghosted across his. He felt Pete's warm, whisky breath on the scruff of stubble around his mouth and closed the narrow gap between their lips, barely resisting the urge to murmur the urgent and honest _I love you_ that sat on the tip of his tongue. It was too soon to say it despite it never needing to be said at all. Even in the heat of a longed for moment he needed to be more for Pete than that.

“Take me upstairs.”

Much as he wanted to hear them Patrick was shocked by the words. Usually Pete took charge. It was always that way. Pete was eager and keen and puppy-like in his enthusiasm for everything including sex. Hearing him asking in a breathy, close-to-broken way made Patrick's head spin.

“Sure, I mean, absolutely but-”

“Show me you mean it.”

The lust and the love came together in a moment that Patrick felt more than he could truly understand or rationalise. He knew precisely what Pete meant, what he needed. It was his turn to step up and take the lead. It had never been fair to expect Pete to put his heart on the line over and over again but it had been so easy to let him do it. The way they loved each other had never been conventional and Patrick had to accept some of the blame for that. He would also have some making up to do.

“Last one up there has to ask Andy why he's vegan.”

A laugh rumbled against his lips and he felt the shift of something between them. It was time. It had always been time but maybe just for a few years his watch had stopped. Pete let go of him and was soon on his feet but instead of moving he waited and Patrick felt the eyes burning into him with a mixture of hope and desire until he stood too and moved away from the couch. He held out his hand and waited until Pete grabbed it before leading him to the door and then to the staircase beyond. If Pete wanted to be taken to bed then he was more than happy to oblige.

~~

Stripping off came easy to Pete. He was always far happier with less clothes on than most people. While Patrick hopped around and tried to take his remaining sock off Pete was already down to his trunks and pulling back the sheets before sitting on the edge of the bed. It warmed his heart how so little about Patrick in a sexual setting had changed. Even though the sex itself was often intense there was nothing about Patrick which exuded eroticism or confidence. As Pete shuffled back and rested his head on the piled up pillows he couldn't help but watch as Patrick stripped awkwardly. He loved every inch of the pale skin and he used to know the feel of every bit of it just as well as he knew his own. He struggled to understood why the blatant and unashamed desire he had for the man within that skin didn't make it any easier for Patrick to take his clothes off already.

Eventually Patrick got in beside him, also stripped to his trunks, but he hastily tugged one of the sheets up to cover his midriff. Pete rolled towards him, gently pulling the sheet back down and stroking his fingers up and down the chest he had exposed.

“I want all of you. I mean it.”

He offered his mouth to Patrick, not wanting to repeat his almost violent claiming of a kiss, and didn't have long to wait before his lips were covered, his mouth urged open and his tongue dancing underneath the one that had joined it. The mere thought of Patrick taking him to bed had made him just short of fully hard and the hand that skipped the niceties of stroking his chest or thighs and made a beeline to his cock completed the job. Sluttishly he groaned into the kiss and pushed against the warm palm that rubbed over the front of his trunks, doing his best not to hump hard enough to get himself off.

As Patrick's hand had rubbed progressively harder he hadn't realised that he had started to worry at one of the erect nipples his fingertips remembered only too well. He twisted and tugged, pinching in just enough of the flesh beyond the rose pink nub so that it wasn't a sharp pain but pulling as he pressed his fingertips together to keep the delicious looking nipple as hard as it could be. Unable to hold back any longer Pete decided to mirror Patrick's treatment of his cock, releasing the tormented nipple and sliding his hand down. His fingers found a small, warm wet patch and pressed against it earning a sinful groan as the patch grew even more saturated.

“Shit, Pete... oh my God.”

“I remember how good you taste Patrick. Sweet. I want to taste you on my lips forever.”

“You're... going to... to... have to wait for that.”

The glistening beads Pete saw forming on Patrick's forehead as he spoke were sign enough as to why he had started to stumble over his words and would soon stop making any sense. Lust was overwhelming for Patrick and that was one of the best parts of being in bed with him. There were no half measures and he fucked with the same intensity he sang with. What Pete didn't expect was the way Patrick shuffled down the bed without so much as another word, got up onto his knees and pulled Pete's trunks down to his knees to expose him fully. He completed the obscene sight himself by kicking his underwear off and flicking it onto the floor.

If he was praying for the fingers to resume their work then he was disappointed but for nothing more than half a second when they didn't. With the way Patrick dipped his head down it was clear that something else far better was about to replace the eager hand.

The pointed tongue reached his cock first, licking tiny stripes from the sensitive edge of his swollen tip back to the slit where slippery pre-cum was pooling. As the tongue collected it's reward it circled, swirled and dipped until it made his toes curl. The entire head of his cock was soon moving in and out of Patrick's mouth, the pinked lips curling around the rim to hold him in until Patrick pulled away and let go with a gentle popping sound. After the cool air came the warm mouth, over and over again. With every repetition Patrick took more of him in until he felt the back of Patrick's mouth bumping against the head of his cock. Pete dared to look down but had to avert his eyes as otherwise he had no chance of lasting as long as he wanted to.

Pete felt his body starting to tighten up all over. His calf muscles felt impossibly tense and he spread his thighs further apart and pulled his knees up halfway to try and give them some slack. His heels dug into the mattress but his plan backfired spectacularly when Patrick's hand disappeared between his legs and stroked from the soft spot behind his balls, all the way over them and then traced his fingers up his shaft to where his lips were sealed. The hand made the journey again and again, pushing him ever closer to the edge. He knew that he couldn't hold on much longer no matter how hard he concentrated or tried to wait, to make it last.

“Patrick... Patrick, move... I'm...”

“Mhmmm.”

“Dude, move, I can't... fuck, I can't...”

“Mmmmm hmm.”

Pushing his head back into the pillows Pete mentally clawed at the walls, tried to think about anything other than the avalanche of love, lust and need hitting his brain. All he could focus on was the fact that he was going to come in Patrick's mouth. He wanted to so badly but it had been a problem in the past – Patrick adamant that it was too far, too much of a betrayal. What his hang up was about that exchange of DNA when they'd done so many other things confused Pete but he had respected it always.

His eyes screwed shut and Pete was sure that his toes had turned into talons as he fought back the flood. He reached down and tried to cup Patrick's face as gently as his shaking hand would allow, urging him to move away. It was met only by Patrick's hand softly curling around his, pushing it back up and pinning it to his abdomen, making it clear that there was to be no moving away. In Pete's mind that put the keys and the codes in and he formed fists and hit the big red fire button over and over again.

“Holy shit, Patrick. Please, oh shit, don't stop...”

Everything except the rotating ceiling fan and Patrick melted away. There was no luxury boathouse, no trappings of fame and fortune, no lyric books, no guitar propped by the wall. The bed, the sheets and the quilted comforter ceased to exist just as the lives they had lived until that point did. Pete drowned in a sea of velvet rainbow waves, fancy winged butterflies with golden blue eyes tattooed on their wings were circling his head and an ethereal light tingeing his mind's eyesight like the most perfect rose tinted glasses. He didn't feel the hard spasms or hear desperate cries of passion coming from his mouth. Instead it was like a wave of peace and joy, washing away years of hurt, years of loneliness in full rooms when the man he loved was only inches away and yet somehow they were still a lifetime apart. He was breaking into a million confetti coloured pieces and falling like cherry blossom petals from the sky.

“Pete, dude, are you okay?”

“Pretty. So pretty.”

“Seriously, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Patrick couldn't help but be concerned with how Pete had gone from sounding like the best porn voiceover on the planet to deadly silent in a matter of minutes. Rocking back onto his heels he had watched for a few seconds before speaking, the smile that settled around Pete's eyes as beautiful as anything he had ever seen. His hair was spread all over the pillows in a spillage of oil slick dark strands, stark against the white cotton. Pete's mouth looked soft despite being surrounded by scruff that was maybe one or two days longer than usual and Patrick revelled in the fact that Pete's pink lips were all his after so long being deliciously forbidden.

Sex with Pete had always been close to a religious experience but when he was blissed out and gone from the world Patrick knew he'd done something more than right. It had been a while since he had had the opportunity to see the aftermath and it made him wonder just where his strength of resolve not to climb into bed with Pete every night of his life had come from. He waited until Pete looked to be back on the planet before letting go of the hand still grasped in his own, using it to ground them both back into the room. The still-fresh taste of Pete on his lips and tongue was intoxicating and he searched his mouth thoroughly, determined not to miss out on any of it.

Slowly Pete sat upright, leaning in to kiss him as he got close enough. Patrick could only assume that Pete had no problem tasting every bit of himself in the kiss and he was right with how quickly the kiss intensified. He knew that it was pretty naïve to think that Pete hadn't done that a dozen times before with different guys and made a mental note to compare their two tastes next time he had the opportunity to press his lips to Pete's in the moments after a captured orgasm.

Patrick followed as Pete leaned back, shuffling forward with the intention of lying down until hands found the waistband of his trunks and pushed them down, exposing his achingly hard cock to the air.

“I want you to cover me.”

“Um, like, get on top or with the sheets?”

The laugh that tickled his lips told Patrick he had misunderstood.

“No, you idiot. I want you to _cover_ me. Mark me as yours. _Please?_”

The sensation of being exposed and so brazenly aroused below his waist was already pushing hard on his hair trigger hard-on and the filth spilling from the flushed lips wasn't helping that at all.

“Yes. God, yes. Anything right now. But, uh, only if you're sure that's-”

“Stop talking. I'll get you started then you finish off.”

With a nod Patrick confirmed that he understood and watched as Pete's hand started at his middle, trailed down his stomach, traced the inside of his thigh and then disappeared from his sight. Fingers cupped his balls softly and then massaged them as best the taut skin would allow. Unable to help himself despite being almost ashamed of how turned on he was, Patrick pushed down into the palm that pressed against him and tried to rut against it but it was gone before he could manage it. The fingers then slid back up and formed a fist around him, the grip loose and moving slowly.

“C'mere.”

He obeyed when he was beckoned closer, leaning over and planting one hand beside Pete's head on the pillows and steadying himself by seeking out a kiss. It was as languidly paced as the hand sliding around his shaft and the torment was both excruciating and exhilarating at the same time. Pete's tongue licked against his, stroking and tickling the smooth sides of it before stepping up a gear and pushing harder into his mouth. The low, lust driven growl that Patrick let out earned a step up in speed around his cock and he bucked his hips to push through the fist with intent, his animalistic side taking over as he chased down the sweet release he was looking for.

“Take over.”

Patrick didn't need to be told twice as soon as Pete's hand had deserted him. He kept up the kiss and used his free hand to grasp roughly at himself. It felt so good to be able to speed right up, pumping his fist hard as he careered towards the finish line. Pete was still boneless beneath him and yet somehow still held all the power. He wanted to please Pete, to give him what he needed and, more importantly, what he craved. The well hidden submissive streak in Pete rarely came to the fore and in the stolen moments of self-pleasure that Patrick treated himself to flashbacks to such memories were often his go-to. The way Pete could pout-to-plead for what he wanted and how Patrick both loved and hated how easily he used to give in to it, how around Pete's little finger he was and still wanted to be.

The kiss ended abruptly when Patrick pulled back, gasped for breath and changed the angle of his wrist to aim directly at Pete's chest. He watched as Pete stretched his arms above his head and exposed himself fully, hips tilted upwards and eyes staring straight at him. Thanks to the swoosh of blood as his pulse paradiddled in his ears as fast as Andy could, Patrick saw the quietly mouthed 'Please' before he heard it and with two last ragged tugs of his hand he was doing as Pete had asked. It had been a long time since he had come with such ferocity and it showed; thick white stripes spread in a haphazard pattern from Pete's darkly hairy navel all the way to his hard nipples. Patrick had always been a lot to handle for all his partners in more ways that one and the mess he was making of Pete acted as a reminder of that.

Finally finished, Patrick took a minute to catch his breath and before sinking down onto the bed. He found himself flat on his back staring up at the ceiling beside Pete who was doing the same. The hand he had been propped up on was hot and damp with the sweat of his exertion but that didn't stop Pete's hand seeking it out and nudging at it with his pinky finger. As he hooked his own pinky around it he was able to imagine the endearingly silly smile on Pete's face. It was likely to be dangerously similar to the one on his own.

“So, you okay?”

Pete's voice sounded post-sex sleepy. Patrick didn't dare to think about how late it was but he was certainly ready for some rest. For entirely non-sexual reasons bed was often his favourite place to be.

“Oh I'm good. Exhausted but really, _really_ good. You?”

“You don't need to ask do you? I mean, like, look at the state of me.”

The shared low toned laughter filled the room. Patrick felt Pete's hand slip away and then the bed dipped as Pete shuffled out and got to his feet.

“I'll be back in a sec, just, don't go anywhere. Don't move _at all_. Not a millimetre.”

He was more than willing to abide by Pete's words and didn't even treat himself to the sight of Pete walking away, presumably in the direction of the bathroom. There wasn't time to think about how he needed to get comfortable as the minute his eyes were closed he fell asleep.

When Pete eventually returned, significantly cleaner than when he left, Patrick was sprawled on his back and breathing deeply. He didn't feel Pete curling up beside him nor did he register the small kisses that landed on his shoulder and cheek. Patrick would never know how another night under an ink black sky breaking to a fire red sunrise was another night of taking confession in his sleep. In the morning he would never consciously remember the words that Pete spoke to him but go on to wonder in the future how he knew certain things, how he still had some kind of deja vu when it came to the contents of Pete's soul.

~~

“Hey, are you awake yet?”

Pete managed to get the words out despite being face down in the pillow avoiding the bright sunlight that flooded into the room. He preferred to approach the day in his own way and with scorched retinas was not it. When he didn't get a response he turned his head and spoke a little louder, refusing to accept that he may have to leave Patrick sleeping and shut them himself.

“Patrick, did you open the blinds or did we forget to put them down last night?”

He still didn't get an answer. Pete's heart filled with a sense of unease and he reached behind himself to check where Patrick was. When his hand didn't find anything except cool rumpled cotton his heart sunk like a stone. It felt too much to turn over and see that he was alone all over again. In the high of last night he had been able to ignore any fears that history could or would repeat itself on him. Underneath Patrick was where his heart and soul told him he belonged, the only place he really, truly belonged and even the risk of disaster in the morning after hadn't been enough to make him tear himself away.

Pete grabbed the soft sheets that had gathered around his hips and pulled them up over his head in one fell swoop. All sense of sleepy contentment had deserted him and the dark tendrils of disappointment had curled around his ankles already. Maybe he had hoped for too much, maybe he had been too much. If he had to find out it was all a mistake then that would have to be be later on, he had no intention of facing that aspect of the day ahead before he had to.

The clunk of the door opening made him jump, immediately pulling the covers back off and looking around the room, startled by the sound fracturing the silence.

“Hey, sleepy! You're still in bed. Did I wake you?”

“Patrick – what the fuck? Where were you?”

The upset in his voice tried its best to sound like anger but it couldn't quite manage it. He was too emotional to make it sound as pissed off as he had hoped. Within seconds he had been half scooped into a bear hug that stole his breath and his soul at the same time. Patrick was a known hugger and a passionate one at that.

“You really thought I'd bailed on you again...”

Pete didn't respond. He couldn't. Instead he focused on burying his face in the soft cardigan that was wrapped around Patrick's chest and and tried to feel more grateful that he had jumped to an old conclusion and been wrong.

“I wouldn't... I mean, I know I have in the past but not now. No. Pete, _no_.”

Somehow the hug got even tighter but Pete didn't flinch. It felt good. Being wanted back by the man he so desperately wanted felt so good. He managed to get his arms loose and wrapped them around Patrick's waist, feeling the weight of the chin resting on his head anchoring him into the embrace.

“I just thought...”

“I went to get coffee. It was just a coffee run. There's Starbucks on the kitchen table for you. I got you hot and cold but the hot might be cold now too 'cos of the traffic. Now, I mean if that's not love then...”

The words were out in the open before either of them could realise what had been said. Pete cleared his throat and shuffled closer.

“Did you get me a cronut too?”

“Of course, what kind of idiot do you take me for?”

With that he pulled Patrick off balance, tumbling them both into a bundle of messy arms and legs on the bed. As soon as he could he sought out Patrick's lips and attached himself to them, grateful that he hadn't been abandoned, knowing that he loved cold coffee enough to not surface from bed just yet. There was a lot of music to write, a lot of lyrics to learn but there was also a whole new world of trust to build. The coffee would keep. He had some closing to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the lyrics from the song 'All That Jazz' from Chicago the musical.
> 
> Various linkage:
> 
> Here's the [house they stayed in](https://chicago.curbed.com/2017/6/9/15770990/for-sale-chicago-north-shore-home-wilmette)
> 
> Here's the [first act at the Green Mill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69JV3pWStIw)
> 
> Here's the [main act at the Green Mill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gE83vNveAb8)
> 
> All reads, comments, kudos and love are more than welcome. I love these boys and I love writing them <3 I can also be found over at tumblr as [ohhfrecklefreckle](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ohhfrecklefreckle) if you want to say hi, chat or get me to follow you :)


End file.
